


Post-Plenary Indulgence

by katiemariie



Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Interspecies Relationship(s), Interspecies Sex, M/M, Post-Canon, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-05
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-09-12 11:39:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16872264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katiemariie/pseuds/katiemariie
Summary: Years after the war, Garak and Odo have settled into new roles in their recovering civilizations. They don't expect to run into each other at a boring work conference.





	Post-Plenary Indulgence

**Author's Note:**

  * For [guardianofdragonlore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/guardianofdragonlore/gifts).



The First Father watches uneasily, hand hovering at his belt, as Odo flattens his arms into blankets, forming a tight swaddle around the infant.

“That’s better,” Odo murmurs as much to himself as to the calming child.

He’s no Emissary—he won’t be going around kissing babies anytime soon—but after spending years playing nurse to what amounts to a Changeling convalescent home, Odo must admit there’s nothing like holding something—someone—so vital and full of potential. Even now the hatchling’s rapid, but steady growth presses Odo to loosen his hold. A reminder that all life in the Universe changes—if not in the way of Odo’s people.

He looks up at the First Father, unsure of what he’s expected to say. “This Jem’Hadar is... strong,” he finally says, the new dialect of Dominionese puffing uneasily from his mouth.

Ratol’Tadl nods. “Thank you, Founder,” he says with servility belied by two arms reaching insistently for his baby.

Somewhat reluctantly, Odo hands the hatchling back to his First Father, who has much more of a claim to his brief childhood than anyone, Founder or Jem’Hadar. Watching Ratol’Tadl struggle to secure the baby in a sling it has already outgrown, Odo intuits the reason his audience was requested.

“Do you want to make it longer?” Odo clarifies, “Childhood. The aging process.”

Having given up on the sling, Ratol’Tadl rests the baby against his shoulder. “At times, many, especially the First Fathers, would prefer a longer childhood. But it’s not something we want.”

“You prefer it, but you don’t want it?”

“Altering the life cycle would require Founder-meddling.” This one must be third or fourth generation Alpha; he corrects his terminology: “Godwork. Unlike the Vorta, we do not wish to rely on the Founders to fulfill our every whim.”

“But there is at least one whim you’d like my help fulfilling,” Odo says, keeping his voice mild. “I can’t imagine a Jem’Hadar tearing himself away from the…” He glances at the day’s schedule. “...baby jamboree if he didn’t want something from me.”

“True.” Ratol’Tadl nods solemnly, a gesture whose dignity is undercut by the hatchling gumming at the nutrient tube connected to his neck. “The First Fathers have a need for more time with the Youngest. Demanding time from our Seconds has proven…” He looks down at his right hand, which Odo now notices is short a few knuckles. “...controversial. The Council of Honored Elders recommended that…” He pries the nutrient tube from between the hatchling’s teething gums, allowing the fluid to flow freely into his neck port. “...instead of claiming more time later in the Youngest’s lives, we seek more time earlier in their lives.”

“Earlier?” Odo asks. “I thought First Fathers were with hatchlings from the moment they’re born.”

Fighting a losing battle with the baby, Ratol’Tadl disconnects the tube from his neck port and offers it to the hatchling, who latches on almost immediately. He looks up at Odo absently. He blinks slowly.

“I thought you were with them from birth,” Odo repeats.

“Yes,” the First says, wearing an oddly euphoric expression for someone whose life nutrients are being siphoned off.

“So,” Odo says slowly, “you want to be with them before birth?”

“Yes.” As if it were obvious.

Odo shakes his head. “If you’re trying to avoid ‘Founder-meddling,’ having us engineer a new reproductive system is probably not what you’re looking for.”

“You’re right. It is not. We have no desire to mimic mammalian reproduction.” He pauses, shifting the hatchling’s weight in his arms. “We wish to de-automate the hatcheries and reassign the coordination of core gestational activities to First Fathers. The reproduction machinery would remain in place, but Jem’Hadar—not algorithms written by Vorta—would decide how best to gestate our Youngest.”

Odo’s brow droops. “That sounds like it could be a very meaningful change.” After hearing Nerys, Captain Sisko, both O’Brien’s, and, on one occasion, Commander Worf opine about the importance of parents influencing and bonding with children prenatally, Odo is sympathetic to the First Fathers’ cause. Yet, at the same time… “I’m not sure how I can help you. Operations and technical assistance fall under the Vorta. The Borath overseeing hatchery technology should be at the conference. I may be able to arrange a meeting between—”

“We have already spoken to the Vorta.” Frustration frays the First Father’s voice. “They will not remove themselves from the hatcheries without an order from the Founders.”

Odo sighs. “Please remind the Vorta that the Founders no longer provide orders.”

“I have.”

“And they still refuse?”

“Yes. We believe they do not wish to relinquish control over the hatcheries…” His nutrient tube slips from the hatchling’s mouth, letting liquid spill down his chest. He grimaces. “...but, as cowards, fear opposing our demands directly.”

“So, they pass the decision on to me,” Odo concludes.

“Correct.” Careful of disturbing his dozing child, Ratol’Tadl reconnects his nutrient tube.

Odo shakes his head. “A Founder issuing an order to Vorta would violate the interspecies compact. The peace we have in the Cooperative depends on all of us staying within the compact, following the letter of the law. If you’re looking for me to issue an order, I can’t help—”

“I would fill my veins with the Old White before begging a Founder to issue an order,” Ratol’Tadl whispers vehemently. “I ask only that you put your influence to work and sway the Vorta’s mind.”

Odo crosses his arms over his chest. “You want me to butter up the Vorta—something the Jem’Hadar could do themselves, but won’t, because they’re too proud. Is that what I’m hearing?”

Ratol’Tadl wipes nutrient fluid from his chest. “If given the choice between begging a Vorta and ending the Cooperative, the other First Fathers would rather go to war.”

“But you came to me.” A thought occurs—one that would explain why a First Father with no real standing would want to meet with him so urgently. “They don’t know you’re here.”

“No.”

Odo takes in this First Father and the child who, like Odo’s own, will be taken from him far too soon. “I’ll see what I can do.”

-

“All I wish to say—” Garak places his empty glass on the tray of a passing caterer. “—is that if our people focus too much on our subjugation under the Founders, we risk remaking our entire identities around the Dominion. And isn’t that merely extending the subjugation?”

“With all due respect, Ambassador,” a Vorta—a late model Keevan, if Garak isn’t mistaken—says dryly, “your people were subjugated by the Founders for—what?—four years? That hardly makes you an expert on subjugation.” He adds into the rim of his glass, “Unless you count the occupation of Bajor.”

A young Teplan man winces, grabbing his chest as if suddenly wounded. An adolescent Jem’Hadar—intent on consuming every nibble in reach while his body can still withstand dietary fiber—chokes on a fruit tart.

Ever impartial, an older Karemma lowers a canape from her mouth. “I thought we agreed that bringing up the Bajoran Occupation led to unproductive discourse.”

“Yes, of course,” Keevan says, “and I will honor that agreement just as soon as the Jem’Hadar stop calling me a collaborator.”

Still coughing, the young Jem’Hadar glares. “You fed us the Old White then withheld it so we would do your bidding.”

“Or…” Keevan gestures expansively with his glass of white wine. “We instituted periods of sobriety in lives that were otherwise beset with addiction. It’s all a matter of perspective.”

“Precisely,” Garak cuts in, feeling slightly upstaged by this youthful provocateur. “As I was saying, as Formerly Subjugated Species—” Garak refuses to use the ridiculously Dominionese acronym. “—we need to shift our perspectives away from what was done to us and onto what we have done.”

Keevan opens his mouth to speak.

“And, yes,” Garak interrupts, “that includes the Occupation of Bajor.”

“Then why are you here?” the Karemma asks.

“Pardon?”

“Why even attend the conference if you believe we should forget what the Dominion did to us all?”

Garak clucks his tongue. “I’m afraid I haven’t been very clear. I would never advocate forgetting what was done to us. In fact, I think we could all do to remember it more clearly. It’s all very well and good to speak about ‘what the Dominion did to us,’ but how often do we actually mean the Dominion as a whole? And how often are we using the Dominion as a politically correct euphemism for the Founders? True, they gave the orders, but we forget—” He turns to Keevan. “—the Vorta relayed them, and—” He looks to the young Jem’Hadar. “—the Jem’Hadar carried them out. And, of course—” Now to the Karemma. “—the whole enterprise was funded by the financially astute Karemma.” He smiles. “As for the Cardassians, we invited all of you into the Alpha Quadrant, like lambs to the slaughter.” He straightens the hem of his tunic. “We all have each other’s blood on our hands. It’s too late to avoid looking down.”

The Teplan youth shakes his head. “My hands are clean. My people never—”

Keevan scoffs. “Please regale us once more with the myth of Teplan innocence. It’s a song and dance no one dares tire of.”

“Resisting the Dominion isn’t a crime,” the Teplan says. “At least not one that justifies being Blighted for generations.”

“It is if you sabotage a cloning facility,” Keevan counters.

“We never—we would never—” the Teplan sputters.

“Karemma ledgers don’t lie.”

The Karemma nods. “Several key assets were lost at Teplan’a.”

“Vorta,” Keevan says firmly. “Entire germ lines were lost.”

The Teplan’s face reddens. “They shouldn’t have been on our planet to begin with!”

“They were children,” Keevan hisses, something real cracking through the layers of artifice. “I suppose you think they should have crawled off-planet?”

“We didn’t want them there! We didn’t want any of you there! We still don’t!” Tears sting the Teplan’s eyes. “Teplan’a should be for Teplans, not the children of our oppressors.”

“My dear.” Garak lays a hand on the young man’s elbow. “I believe they now prefer to be called ‘refugees.’”

He yanks his arm away. “Why should we be expected to help them now? No one came to help us, especially not the Jem’Hadar.”

The Jem’Hadar wiggles his fingers in the air, the picture of pubescent sarcasm. “Oh, I’m sorry we were still enslaved during your time of need.”

“You poisoned us!”

“Teplans don’t even know the meaning of poison.”

“Of course,” Keevan says dryly. “Teplans don’t know the meaning of anything. They haven’t mastered indoor plumbing yet, much less written a dictionary.”

As a Karemma barrier forms between the fists of belligerent youth, Garak murmurs a “now, now, boys,” and mentally marks an item off his to-do list.

-

Prosecco lying light, pink, and fizzy on his (currently Andorian) tongue, Odo spies a conspicuous figure in the packed reception hall. The first Cardassian Odo has yet to see at the conference extricates himself from a group of pugnacious young men (Odo stifles the urge to break them up even though a towering Karemma has it well in hand) and wanders with rehearsed casualness toward the bar. Recognition and a smile dawn on his face.

“Constable,” Garak says, drawing nearer, “I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Really?” Odo asks. “You didn’t get a program?”

“No, of course. I was delighted to see your name, but when I heard that the other members of the Changeling panel couldn’t attend due to—what was it?—‘several, simultaneous but unrelated personal emergencies,’ I assumed you would be absent as well. I see I was wrong.”

“I honor my commitments. Despite the epidemic of personal emergencies sweeping the Great Link.”

“Good for you. I must say it’s rather odd to hear of so many ‘personal emergencies’ in a species that has forsaken individuality. In any case, it is so good to see you. How long has it been?”

Odo thinks. As always, time and timelines appear with fuzzy outlines upon emerging from the Link. “When did the war end?”

“Nearly seventeen years ago.”

“There’s your answer.” Odo takes a light sip of prosecco.

Garak’s eyes widen. “You’re drinking.”

Odo glances at his glass. “I like the bubbles. It’s fascinating how different one drink can feel on a dozen different tongues.” At Garak’s gaping, he clarifies, “Not all at once of course.”

“Of course.” Garak gives a half-smile. “You’ve gotten younger since we saw each other last.”

“Have I?” Odo asks. “Maybe you’ve just gotten older.”

“I’ve certainly added a few more years to my prestige, but there is something undeniably younger about you now.”

“And what would—”

“Constable, I’m so sorry to cut this short,” Garak interrupts, “but I see a Karemma colleague I must absolutely catch up with. I do hope we’ll run into each other again before the conference ends.” 

He excuses himself before Odo has a chance to respond.

Turning back to order another drink (perhaps a seltzer cocktail?), Odo finds a PADD resting on the bar before him. A PADD that wasn’t there when he sat down. A PADD he doesn’t remember anyone placing behind him.

The unlock screen offers a single clue: _I’m working. Find my quarters._

Odo asks for his bill, taking a moment to remember the reception has an open bar.

-

The Constable has already broken in and broken out the kanar by the time Garak returns to his rooms. Two glasses rest on the coffee table, foregrounding Odo on the couch.

“I’m glad to see you’ve made yourself at home.” The door swooshes shut behind Garak. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I can sleep in the hall if that will make your guest more comfortable.”

“Relax.” Odo doesn’t look up from his PADD. “I’m alone.”

“Oh, so only one person has broken into my quarters. How reassuring.”

Odo’s smooth brow lifts upward. “You invited me.”

“I told you to find my quarters, not to commit a felony.”

“You’re just as fussy as I remember.” Odo slides a glass toward the empty end of the sofa. “I thought old age would have mellowed you.”

“I’m not that old.” Garak walks over and lowers himself onto the sofa, hoping to god that Odo doesn’t hear his knees crack in the process. “If I seem geriatric, it’s only because a certain power hailing from the Gamma Quadrant lowered the average Cardassian life expectancy. Of course, I would never dream of holding you accountable for that.”

Odo lowers his PADD, but doesn’t rise to the bait. “I hear recovery is still ongoing. If there’s anything I can do to help…” He trails off.

“While I appreciate the offer, I’m afraid the provisional government is reluctant to accept aid from the Federation much less…” Garak leaves the phrase unfinished, a careful bit of verbal mirroring rather than tact. With a mild grin, he switches the subject. “How is the Great Link recovering?”

“Well enough.” 

Odo places his PADD between their drinks. Garak’s eyes flick to the coffee table just before the screen goes black. The unmistakable print of the Federation newswire, header bylining Jake Sisko. Surprisingly sentimental, but nothing of any diplomatic value.

Odo is staring when Garak looks up. “Old habits die hard?” Odo asks.

“It’s true what they say: you can’t teach an old boarhound new tricks.”

“Especially if the boarhound is still performing the old ones.”

Garak tilts his head. “You know, I’ve never heard the rest of that saying before, but I suppose it’s just as true.”

Odo turns his body to face Garak, his knees jutting into Garak’s perimeter of personal space. “I know why you’re here.”

Garak runs through several denial options: ‘Of course, this is my room,’ ‘Obviously, the organizers invited me,’ ‘I have a panel tomorrow morning; I couldn’t stay out drinking all night,’ and so on. He opts for a coy, “You do?”

“Of course, and not only that; I know why you’re _really_ here.”

“Are you implying I have an ulterior motive buried beneath my ulterior motives?”

Odo doesn’t address the question, choosing to stretch his face into a knowing smile, approximating a twinkle in his eyes. “You miss it.”

Garak waits for him to elaborate. Saying nothing, he wagers, will reveal less than any obfuscation he can offer.

“You miss being the only one of your kind. The only Cardassian in a sea of faces completely different from your own.”

Garak dares to lay a light hand on Odo’s knee. “My dear, I think you may be projecting a little.”

Odo turns away, breaking contact to pick up his glass. “It’s not projection to think we could have something in common.”

“No.” He reaches for his own glass, bringing them closer again. “That’s arrogance.”

Odo leans in rather than pulling away. “You think that highly of yourself?”

“Not of myself.” Cupping his glass in both hands, Garak sniffs the kanar. A decent vintage, or what qualifies for decent nowadays. “But I do think rather highly of my powers of deception. You may be a fine detective, if out of practice, but to see through my layers of subterfuge to my true motivations would take—”

“A god?” Odo offers, and Garak has the sudden boyish urge to playfully push his shoulder.

Instead, he tuts. “Careful. Talk like that endangers the compact.”

“Fine. Let’s assume,” Odo says, “that after living on the same station for years, sharing breakfast once a week, going to war together, _and_ knowing every shred of intelligence the Bajoran militia, Starfleet, and the Founders have gathered about you, I couldn’t have any insight into whatever fuzzy Cardassian feelings Elim Garak may have.”

Garak takes a drink. “I don’t have to assume, but very well.”

“Very well.” Odo leans closer into Garak’s personal space, stretching his neck and chest unnaturally. “I still know why _Ambassador_ Garak is here.”

Garak lowers his drink, leaving nothing but air between them. “I’d expect nothing less, my dear Constable.” He reaches to place his glass back on the table, brushing shoulders with Odo. “I suppose this is the part of the story where the detective reveals the foreigner’s felonious plot.”

“Felonious?” Odo repeats. “I never said you were breaking the law. At least, not this time.”

“Then what are you saying? It’s not often I’m accused of _not_ committing a crime.”

Odo takes a slow slip of kanar, then, without breaking eye contact, lengthens his arm to set his glass on the table. “You’re using the conference as a testing ground for Cardassian psyops.”

Garak plays dumb—a look he’s told rather becomes him. “Cardassian Sybok?” He holds a hand to his chest. “I thought he died decades ago. And, in any case, he was Vulcan.”

Odo rolls his eyes. “Psyops. Psychological operations. Mental warfare.”

Garak looks up, mirroring Odo’s sullen expression. “Constable, you know as well as I do that Cardassians lack the disposition for telepathy.”

“Of course. If the Obsidian Order could have had a band of mind readers, they would have. Although, according to certain reports...” Odo pauses. “I hear it wasn’t for lack of trying.”

Garak puts on his stale, state official face. “I can neither confirm nor deny the existence of telepathic training camps. However, I will say that Dr. Kovars’ contributions to youth education, regardless of their relative success, still earn her a place among the Union’s greatest neuroscientists.”

“You do realize that once your government declassifies information, you can stop denying it.”

“Perhaps you can.” Garak straightens his shirt cuffs. “But some of us still take pride in our work.”

Odo harrumphs. “Well, you’ve certainly been working hard tonight.” 

Garak nods solemnly. “Rubbing elbows with one’s colleagues is far more taxing than most realize.”

“Rubbing elbows? Ha!”

“You laugh, but networking is a difficult, but altogether necessary part of a diplomat’s job. Relationship building, even in informal settings, is key to—”

Odo scoffs. “You’re not building relationships. You’re starting fistfights amongst the other—” Odo hacks and hisses the new Dominionese acronym for Formerly Subjugated Species, setting Garak’s teeth on edge. “You’ve spent the night sowing discord in the Cooperative.”

Garak considers another denial, but it’s creeping closer to Odo’s gelatinous bedtime, and this cat-and-mouse game has gone on long enough to satisfy his appetite for mystery. So, instead, he chooses candor, however sardonic. “Oh, dear,” he deadpans. “You’ve caught me. And after all the trouble I went through to cover my tracks: not wearing a disguise, registering for the conference under my own name, telling you I was working. You truly are the greatest detective this side of the wormhole.”

Odo lengthens his torso, putting his smirking face a forearm’s distance from Garak’s. “Don’t try to soften your own defeat. The ‘great detective’ won this round.”

“I hardly call that a victory.” Garak cranes his regrettably short neck and continues in a lower voice, “Anyone with functioning senses or an adequate interpreter could tell the lone Cardassian was stirring up trouble wherever he went.”

“Yes, but I’m the only one who realized you were doing it on purpose. Everyone else assumes all this fighting is an unintended side effect of your sparkling personality.”

“But you know me better,” Garak says.

“I think so.”

“Then I suppose you can tell me why I’m doing all this.”

Odo shrugs. “To cause trouble, to start fights.”

“But why?” Garak rests a bold hand on Odo’s shoulder, which, given the contortions he’s performed, now hardly resembles a shoulder at all. “You say I’m ‘doing it on purpose.’ What’s my purpose?”

Odo presses into the touch, his self giving way against Garak’s hand. “To disturb peace within the Cooperative, to create divisions.”

Garak curls his fingers, kneading something he can’t see. “Good, but why?”

Odo thinks for moment. “Knowing you and what you stand for, you’re doing it to strengthen Cardassia’s position in the Cooperative. Or because you’re bored. Probably both.”

“Well done, Constable,” Garak says, digging his fingernails in.

Odo shifts nearer on the couch, using hands on Garak’s lower thighs as leverage. “Don’t be so easily impressed.”

The smooth form in Garak’s fingers shifts, solidifies into something rough, segmented, and familiar. A sight Garak has heard much of, but never personally seen pokes into his peripheral vision. It seems he’s not the only boarhound still performing old tricks.

At Odo’s direction, he hides whatever surprise suddenly gripping a Cardassian neck and shoulders may have brought him. He continues staring straight into Odo’s still-Changeling face. “Very well. How about something more advanced?” he asks, pushing an experimental finger into a scalebed.

Odo’s weight shifts even as his face remains impassive. “What did you have in mind?”

“Tell me: what’s the motivation behind my motivation.” The tip of his pinky traces the outline of a small, supple scale. “Why would I want to further Cardassia’s standing in the Cooperative?”

Odo’s fingers curl and flex on Garak’s thighs. “Cardassia was a latecomer to the Dominion. The other Formerly Subjugated Species don’t have as familiar a relationship with you as they do with each other.” 

“A keen observation.” Garak presses the heel of his palm into Odo’s collarbone, affording himself leverage to rake his fingertips up and over Odo’s pronounced neck ridge. “But I don’t see how gaining a reputation for fractiousness will make the others like us.”

“Well, that’s…” Odo pauses to collect himself; it’s almost as if he can enjoy this sin of the flesh for his own sake rather than the effect it has on Garak. “That’s not the point. You don’t have to make the other species like Cardassia. You just have to make them hate each other more.”

“Good show, Constable.” He lets up the pressure on Odo’s collarbone; Odo leans in to make up the difference. “However,” Garak continues, “you still haven’t answered my question. Why would Cardassia even bother ingratiating itself with an experimental (and almost universally despised) interstellar organization that has only a handful of members and no real possibility of growth?”

Odo’s lap flattens and slides between Garak and the seat cushions. “Because,” Odo says gruffly, his hands snaking up Garak’s thighs, “the Cooperative is the only interstellar organization—” He grips Garak’s hips, kneading pelvic ridges through damask. “—that didn’t require an extradition treaty.” He hoists Garak onto his lap just as it reforms. “You’re desperate for influence.”

Garak rests his chest against Odo’s, as much for the sensation as to hide whatever surprise has made its way onto his face. “It’s better to be desperate for allies,” he whispers into Odo’s ear despite his certainty that it’s merely ornamental, “than to be desperate in general.” He grinds against Odo to prove his point, but finds only a flat lap beneath him. Reflexively, he leans back to look Odo in the eye—again, despite their ornamentality.

Odo glances away. “I, uh, haven’t had a chance to accurately…” He clears his throat. “I’ve practiced enough that I can mimic the appearance of multiple species, but, with regards to, uh, sensation...” He turns his head, seeming to look even farther away than before. “I haven’t gotten that far.”

That explains the champagne. And the eagerness.

Odo stares at him hesitantly, once again confirming Garak’s impression that he has somehow gained youth in the years since they’d last met. “Is that alright?”

Garak smiles, biting his tongue, forcing back reassurances that, following the Dominion’s bombardment, Cardassia’s pool of eligible bachelors (and unfaithful husbands) with spinal cord injuries has swelled, and that Garak has not been afraid to dip a toe in said pool. This is far from his first time working with only lips and collarbones. But he knows from experience that awareness of a wide base of comparison can make younger men shy. 

Cupping the back of Odo’s head, Garak brings their mouths together and slips his tongue between lips that still taste of kanar.

-

Panting with half-formed lungs, Odo’s fingers struggle for purchase on Garak’s spine, the flailing of his pleasure-drunk body a counterpoint to how truly easy this all has been. Never before has something he’s so clearly wanted fallen (quite literally) into his lap like this. He emerges from the Link with new skills and a particular yearning on his mind, and within the week, like something out of his favorite novels, he meets an old colleague in a bar, gets invited to his room, and the rest is history. Well, history for Garak, who assures him that his sensory journey has reached a close. For Odo, the story is still very much ongoing with no sign of ending anytime soon.

Odo experiences some frustration at lacking the skill necessary to reach the physical climax he’s been able to induce in three separate people of three separate species, but somehow not himself. At the same time, there is something to be said about lacking a definitive endpoint where even the most competent handiwork brings diminishing returns. Perhaps there is some validity to trite Human sayings about the importance of the journey rather than the destination.

Hands still on Odo’s shoulders.

Gulping for air he doesn’t need, Odo whispers, “What’s wrong? Am I reaching to high?”

“No.” Garak’s palms cup Odo’s neck. “It’s getting late. Do you need to regenerate?”

“No, I have a few more hours.” He kisses Garak quickly. “I took a nap after I left the bar.”

Garak’s brow ridges raise in surprise. “I wasn’t aware you could do that.”

“I’ve learned a lot.” And with that, he clings to Garak again, proffering up his neck.

Garak hesitates. “Constable, as much as I enjoy watching you writhe around on high thread count sheets, I’m afraid my hands are tired.”

Odo pulls back to look him in the eye. “I see.”

“And before you make any assumptions about Garak’s ‘old arthritic hands,’ you should know that working on PADDs in state cruisers has caused repetitive stress injuries in people of all ages. Cardassian ergonomic science was decades behind the Federation before the war, so you can imagine where we are now.”

A smile tugs at Odo’s lips. “Does that mean we’re done?” 

“Yes, unless you’d like to try teeth again. Although, I think we can both agree that technique is hardly for beginners.”

“No, I think I’d rather just talk. Unless you’d like me to leave.”

“Stay.” He kisses Odo softly. “You know how much I like to talk.” His hands drift from Odo’s neck, one resting on his chest and the other forming slow circles on his lower back. 

Odo never imagined Garak would be so gentle, but then again, he never really imagined Garak like this. And, if Odo is honest, he never expects anyone to be gentle with him. The expectation has led him to always take the lead, to give rather than take. Until tonight. He feels he should remark upon this, give Garak some kind of flattering pillow talk. That is how these things go in books.

“I’ve never let anyone touch me like that. Not even Nerys.” The words puff out of Odo’s mouth before he can suck them back in, an unstoppable train of oversharing and awkwardness.

He feels Garak’s lungs freeze in panic mid-breath at the mention of Odo’s last (and only) serious partner.

Odo launches into damage control. “I mean,” he continues, “back then, I didn’t know how to alter my nervous system to match the form I was taking. It took years for my people to show me how to truly become a thing, to know a thing.”

“Your people taught you this?” There’s a seedy underbelly to Garak’s question.

“They taught me how to shapeshift.” His hand trails up Garak’s spine. “ _You_ taught me this.” He presses his thumb into the dip marking Garak’s cervical thoracic junction, applying just enough pressure to make his presence known, but not enough to fry Garak’s exhausted nerve endings.

Garak rolls his head back. “Your people don’t—”

“Not like this.” He kisses the underside of Garak’s chin.

“Far be it for me to judge another species—” Garak tangles their feet beneath the covers, shocking Odo with the normal chill of Cardassian extremities. “—but that sounds like a terrible waste.”

“It is. But no civilization is immune to the Cooperative's obsession with creating new taboos.”

Garak sighs. “If someone had told me our recovery would involve so many meetings about what makes someone a ‘new Cardassian,’ I might have stayed on DS9.”

“I doubt that. Feral boarhounds couldn't have dragged you away.”

“Perhaps. But you must admit navigating the heaps of op-eds and manifestos about ‘holistic recovery’ does inspire a hint of nostalgia for days spent digging through rubble.” 

“It was easy to feel like a hero in the early days,” Odo says.

“Of course. Back then we were all heros. Whether we liked it or not.”

“And now?”

“Now…” Garak yawns. “...we go to conferences.”

“And start fights between teenage boys,” Odo teases.

“And,” Garak says accusingly, “seduce innocent Cardassian bureaucrats.”

Odo tries to think of any other Cardassian bureaucrats—much less _innocent_ Cardassian bureaucrats—who may have warmed Garak’s bed on previous nights of the conference. Then he realizes. “I didn’t seduce you,” he protests. “You seduced me.”

“Says the man who broke into my hotel room with a bottle of kanar.”

“After you invited me on some clandestine PADD.”

“I invited you so we could speak freely.”

Odo rolls onto his back. “Are you always so handsy when speaking freely?”

“I am when a decent vintage of kanar is on the table.” Garak nestles in closer. “To say nothing of the company.”

Odo pulls the blankets up over their shoulders. “Then you didn’t seduce me to gain access to Changeling state secrets?”

“I didn’t seduce you at all. Much less for state secrets.” Head resting on Odo’s chest, Garak looks up at him through heavy eyelids. “Cardassians don’t do honeypots.”

“But, all of this—tonight—you must have some deeper reason—”

“Constable, when has a middle-aged politician ever needed a deeper reason for cozying up to a younger man?”

Odo scoffs, the puff of air unsettling Garak’s hair. “When you’re the politician.”

Garak’s nose nuzzles Odo’s chest as his head searches for a comfortable position. “If I admit that you were right, and that I came to the conference seeking some non-Cardassian companionship, will you let me sleep?”

“You’d fall asleep in front of me? I thought you’d be too paranoid to close your eyes in front of a Changeling. Or anyone, for that matter.”

Garak sighs. “You had your hands around my neck for nearly an hour. If you wanted me dead, you could have killed me earlier and made it look like an unfortunate auto-erotic malfunction. In any case, you clearly can break into my room, so there’s no point in showing you the door.”

“You aren’t afraid that I’ll search your things and uncover top Cardassian secrets?”

“Please,” Garak says mid-yawn, “I never bring real intelligence to conferences. If you want to read about a fictitious ore processing plant outside Lakat, be my guest; the PADD is in my suitcase.”

“I suppose I’ll stay then.” Odo pauses, finding there’s no way around his next words; he’s not ready to go without them. “But I’ll have to leave to regenerate in a few hours.”

“I can’t tell if you’re being paranoid or a prude.”

“If I show you everything the first night…” Odo wraps his arms around Garak. “...how can I keep you coming back for more?”

“I can think of a few things,” Garak murmurs.

“You can tell me next time.”

Garak makes a vague, agreeing sound into Odo’s chest. “Send me a wake-up call. I have a panel tomorrow morning. I expect to see you in the audience. It won’t be half as amusing if I can’t watch your reactions.”

“I’ll be there.”

-

Garak wakes alone, wearing nothing but his own dried bodily fluids. After making a quick visual survey of the room, he heads to the bathroom to answer the call of his kidneys. A flimsy PADD rests on the vanity, its screen glowing with the conference schedule. Someone has made annotations, indicating which panels they will be attending and what timeslots they’ll be free. 

A note at the bottom reads, “Find me.”

The room comm chimes, and Garak knows who’s calling.


End file.
